“It would never happen,” he says stubbornly, picking at the blanket the nuns have placed over him. “Although,” he concedes, “it would be most ignoble.”
“Besides”—I settle myself next to him on the narrow bed—“think of me. I need a day or two to rest. I have been lighting fires, arguing with Lazare, and worrying about you. It is a wonder my hair is not full gray by now.”
“Ah. When you put it like that, how can I say no?” He removes his hand from the blanket and begins playing with my fingers instead. “Why did you change your mind?” he asks softly.
I do not pretend not to know what he is talking about. “Things have changed. I have changed.”
He is quiet, hoping I will say more. I prop my head in my hand so I may better see his face: the pockmarks, the lump of a nose, the scar that graces one cheek—he will have a matching one on his forehead now—and among all that cheerful ugliness, two eyes of nearly unnaturally light blue framed with spiky lashes.
“I have decided,” I say, lightly tracing the scar on his cheek, “that you want me only for my body and thus will be easily managed.”
Humor shines in his eyes, but also regret that I will not be serious. “But mostly,” I continue, “I have learned how to wrestle with my own fears so they do not destroy my future chances at happiness. Being with you will make me very happy.”
Those eyes of his—how they glow! Not with feral light, but with joy and love and all the things I once thought I would never experience. I lean down and press my lips on his. “Besides,” I murmur, “if you become too demanding, I can always slit your throat while you sleep.”
“Then at least I will die happy,” he says, pulling me back down.
* * *
When Beast awakes the next morning and is told he still may not use his arm or strain his torso, he decides we should leave for Amboise. “If I am forced to do nothing,” he grumbles, “I may as well do it on a horse.” It is as inactive as he can be, so I agree to it. “Besides, we must get word to the king and queen. We do not know if the English will try to return now that Rohan has given them an invitation. The king will need to meet force with force.” His face brightens. “And, since we have rid him of this pesky rebellion, perhaps he will grant us permission to marry.”
That is the difference between Beast and me—he is a dogged optimist, while I am a dyed-in-the-wool cynic and cannot accept that it will be so easy.
Chapter 92
Genevieve
In the morning, Beast and Sybella come to check on us. “How is he?” Beast asks.
“He is still alive,” Maraud says. “But will not be for long.”
“I am sorry.”
“He said he agreed to d’Albret’s plan in order to make amends.”
“He succeeded.”
As Beast and Maraud continue talking softly, Sybella pulls me aside. “Beast and I need to return to court,” she says. “We need to get news of the English attack to the king and queen. It has gone far beyond a squabble among French nobles.”
“Will he believe you?”
“I have to hope so, especially now that we have won and the queen has nothing to gain from the situation.”
“As if she ever did. Shall I come with you?” I do not wish to abandon Maraud, but convincing the king is too important to leave to chance.
Sybella’s eyes soften. She knows Crunard is not long for this world. “No. Your place is here. You can follow in a couple of days.”
* * *
Even though Maraud’s father does not waken again, we stay with him through the night. Maraud slumps against the wall, and I curl up on a spare blanket, giving him some room to come to grips with the shift in the nature of his father.
He lifts his head and stares up at the ceiling. “If not for my anger with him, I am not sure I would’ve survived my time in the oubliette.”
“Sometimes anger is all there is to live for,” I tell him.
He falls silent, unable to reconcile himself to his father’s attempt at atonement.
“What price would you have paid when you thought Pierre d’Albret had me?” I ask softly.
“Any price. Although I would like to think I would not have betrayed my country.” I can see him think back to that moment, the terror that gripped him. “But I do not know that. Not for certain.”
I rise from my own spot and go sit next to him, pressing my shoulder against his. I cannot help but think of my mother and her small bag of gold. “Our parents are merely human, for all they would have us believe otherwise.”
“But his actions hurt so many.”
“And his recent actions saved many. It seems to me, the scales have been tipped toward justice.”
He pulls me closer and buries his head in the crook of my neck. I say nothing, but offer what little comfort I can.
* * *
After two more days and nights of his father’s worsening condition, I tell Maraud, “If he is ready to die, and you wish it, I can ease his suffering.”
Maraud stares at me in amazement. “How?”
“It is something Sybella showed me.” Each day has brought more fever and putrefaction. “He is rarely conscious for more than a handful of minutes at a time, and I think he has suffered enough.”
“He has,” Maraud says bleakly. “If you could do that for him, I would be grateful.”
His answer pleases me, his willingness to grant his father mercy indicating he is on his way to forgiveness.
I have never done this on a living mortal, but his soul has already been in agony for three days—surely that is enough penance. And as Sybella has said, we are moving in uncharted waters and are allowed to make some of these decisions for ourselves.
Ignoring the stench of his father’s wounds, I cross to the bed and gently place my hand upon Crunard’s chest, right over his heart. To my surprise, I can feel its thready beating, thin and tenuous. As I close my eyes, I feel his soul detach itself from the body, as the wheat separates itself from the chaff when it is ripened, almost as if it knows what I intend to do. Come, I tell the soul. It is time for you to go. You have done your work here.
Like some timid creature emerging from the underbrush, the soul slowly eases from Crunard’s body. It is cloaked in regret and remorse so thick I can almost see it with my physical eyes. It is also filled with love and cannot resist drifting to Maraud and wrapping itself around him. He shivers, as if chilled.
“Is that him?” he whispers.
“Yes,” I say around the lump in my throat. “He is telling you goodbye.”
Maraud closes his eyes and opens himself, I think, to the soul—allowing some final understanding to pass between them. It is a moment of not only divine grace, but human as well.
Chapter 93
Sybella
As the great spires of the city of Nantes come into view, the sudden onslaught of sordid memories takes me by surprise. Unwelcome images—Count d’Albret slaying innocent servants, pressing his lips to mine when he learned I was not his true daughter, Julian lying in a pool of blood—fill my vision, causing the late spring day to darken. I am overcome with a deep reluctance to continue. “Will Lord Montauban meet us out here, or must we enter the city?”
“We do not have to enter the palace.” Beast’s softly spoken words are laced with understanding.
“Did you already arrange a place to meet?”
“No. I was to send word once we returned.” He watches me quietly as I sort through our options.
Marshal Rieux had said he would send letters to Nantes from the other noble houses in Brittany for us to deliver to the king. Their confirmation of the rebellion—and the news that it has successfully been contained—will carry the most weight.
The main gate and its two round towers come into view, the light-colored stone nearly blinding in the bright sun. Beast holds up his hand and raises his voice so those behind us can hear. “We’ll rest the horses here before entering the city,” he tells the rest of our party, giving me
more time to think.
Aeva sends him a look of disbelief that disappears when she sees my face. This is beyond idiotic, I berate myself. I am not some child to be haunted by nightmares. Nevertheless, she, Lazare, Yannic, and the others fall back into the shade of the nearby trees.
After a short silence, Beast says, “It is natural to grieve. And be afraid.”
“You are never afraid,” I point out.
“Of course I am. All the time.” He squirms faintly in his saddle. “Well, mayhap not all the time.”
“When?”
“Whenever your safety or the girls’ is in question, I am terrified.”
Our gazes hold for a long moment before I take a deep breath. My old enemies cannot hurt me now. The disloyal Jamette, the brutal Captain de Lur, the duplicitous Madame Dinan, even Lord d’Albret have been vanquished. Only Pierre remains, and he is far away from here. I take a second breath, letting this one force the ghosts of the past from my mind. “We shall enter the city, although I would prefer we stay at an inn. You can arrange for the letters to be sent there.”
“We may not need to,” Beast says. “The marshal appears to have been alerted to our arrival and has sent an escort.” He motions toward an approaching group of riders.
My heart lifts at the thought that I will not have to enter the city after all.
But as we wait, I notice the party is well armed, and there are nearly a dozen of them, which seems too many for a simple escort. Furthermore, they are not wearing Rieux’s colors. “Those are the king’s colors,” I say softly.
His face impassive, Beast calls back to the others. “Stay where you are and do not come out.” Behind us, there is a rustle of movement as they slip deeper into the trees for cover.
“Do you think he has heard of our success in putting down the rebellion?” I ask.
“It is possible.” Beast does not sound convinced.
When they are close enough that we can see their faces, I recognize Captain Stuart riding at the head, and a wave of foreboding washes over me.
They do not slow their approach, but ride to encircle us, Captain Stuart’s voice ringing out. “Benebic de Waroch and Lady Sybella d’Albret, you are under arrest for raising arms against the crown. I have orders to take you directly to the king.”
Chapter 94
Inside the palace, the guards do not grab us by the arms, but maintain a tight formation around us. While my heart beats faster, Beast’s continues its slow, steady rhythm.
We are not taken to the main hall, but to the smaller, more private chambers attached to the ducal rooms that the king has taken for his own. One of the men opens the door, and Captain Stuart very nearly shoves us inside. Beast does not even notice, but I must struggle to keep my footing.
As I look up, every fear I have had since first seeing the escort crystallizes at the familiar faces around me. Not only is the king here, but also the regent, the Bishop of Albi, and General Cassel, as well as two advisors I do not know. The Bishop of Narbonne is not in attendance.
The king sits rigidly in his chair, his face hard, as he watches us approach. Captain Stuart bows. “The traitors, Your Majesty.”
The word is like a slap, and I must fight to keep my temper in check. I sink into a deep curtsy as Beast goes down on one knee.
“Read the charges against them,” the king says.
General Cassel steps forward. “The two of you are charged with acting against the crown and trying to incite a rebellion among the barons and commoners against their true liege, escaping the king’s lawful imprisonment, and murdering one of the king’s guards.”
I do not dare look at Cassel for fear he will see that I know he was behind the murdered guard. I do not want to show my hand just yet.
“What say you to these charges?”
Beast’s voice rumbles into the chamber. “I have killed no one but your enemies, Your Majesty. I do not know what tale has reached your ears or been reported to you, but we rode here to put down the rebellion that was already underway. And while I did escape from the dungeon in order to do so, my only aim was to see that Rohan did not succeed in raising nobles to his cause.”
“And what cause was that?” The regent’s voice fair curdles my stomach.
“Asserting his right to the duchy over the queen’s and claiming she did not have the authority to sign a treaty on his behalf.”
“You lie.” The regent impugns Beast’s honor as casually as swatting at a fly.
“With all due respect, Madame,” I say. “He does not lie. If you were to speak with Lord Montauban, or Lord Châlons or Marshal Rieux, they would all support our claim.”
It is the king who answers. “All those men have been loyal to the queen. I cannot trust them in this. Besides, your actions speak louder than any words.” I can hear a faint thrum of fury in his voice.
“What we need you to tell us,” the regent interjects smoothly, “is how involved the queen has been with this plan.”
I meet her gaze, allowing all my righteous outrage to spill out. “She has only acted with honor, to ensure the dowry she brought to this marriage was not stolen out from under the king.”
“So she was involved.”
There is but the briefest moment to make a choice. “Only to the degree you saw in Paris, when she presented her arguments in front of you.”
“Is that true?” she asks Beast.
He does not hesitate. “Yes.” I allow myself a small, internal sigh of relief. We will at least be able to shield her.
“Yet another lie, I’m afraid,” she says lightly, before her face grows hard and smug. “English soldiers were among the dead at Morlaix.”
“They were not fighting for Her Majesty,” Beast explains, “but against her. Not only did Rohan initiate the rebellion, he invited France’s enemies to move against the queen as well.”
“Your Majesty.” I direct my words to the king. “If you do not trust us, all you must do is locate Viscount Rohan and put the questions to him. Find out where he was, who he was corresponding with. It will prove that we tell the truth.”
There is another long pause. “We have already done so,” the regent says. “And he has testified that he was approached by the queen to participate in such a scheme, but refused.”
She has gotten to him. The regent has gotten to Rohan and convinced him to implicate the queen to save his own hide.
“Take them away,” the king says with a wave of his hand.
Soldiers step forward then, holding chains and manacles as they approach Beast. I want to scream at them, but will not give them the satisfaction. I look at Beast, wondering if we should make a break for it. We could—easily. We have fought twice this many before and won.
He gives a faint shake of his head. It is a different thing altogether to raise one’s hand against the king.
And so I must watch in silence as the man who risked his life time and time again to secure this fickle kingling’s lands is chained and led away. He does not fight, and his head does not bow. His innocence shines like a beacon—for those not too blinded by their own political scheming to see it.
I am escorted by six armed guards to a small room in the north tower. Four of them remain at my door. I immediately cross to the window and look down in time to see the entire palace courtyard below come to a standstill as Beast is led to the dungeon housed in the old tower. I feel, rather than hear, the clang of the door as it shuts behind them, imagine them leading him lower and lower to that dark pit. I clench my fists. I have gotten him out of there before, I can do so again.
But such thoughts feel like empty promises and bring me little comfort.
* * *
Sometime later, my door opens, and much to my shock, the king enters. “Your Majesty.”
He says nothing, but simply circles me, watching. At last he says, “Rise,” then turns to stare into the fire.
When minutes pass and he still has not spoken, I decide I have had enough of games. “What will you do with
Sir Waroch?”
He glances over his shoulder. “What we normally do with traitors.”
Cold, piercing fear takes over my body. “You cannot kill him! He was only trying to protect what was yours.”
“I am king. I can do whatever I like.”
I clench my fists and try to calm myself. “Will you not at least consult with the men he named to see if their stories match his?”
“We have Viscount Rohan’s sworn oath already.”
“And if Rohan were behind this, as we claim, do you not see how convenient that would be for him to sign such a thing?”
A small frown creases his brow. “He gave his word.”
“I can swear my oath as well.”
“Yes, but we already know you are a proven liar, spy, and assassin. Your word is worthless.”
“Sir Waroch’s is not.”
“You would not be the first woman to have corrupted a man.” He pauses a moment, placing a hand on the mantel to stare into the fire. My mind whirs, striving to think of something to say, something I can do that will open his eyes to the truth.
Before any such thing comes to me, he whirls from the fireplace, fury contorting his face. “You lied to me. You said you were going to a convent. You freed Beast from my dungeon and left a . . . bear in his place!”
“I did not lie. I did leave the palace, and I did spend some time at the abbey. And the bear was too old and tired to hurt anyone. Truly, for an assassin, I have worked hard to ensure that nobody died.”
He takes a step toward me. “You are a dangerous influence on the queen. Ever since you have attended upon her, she has changed. You poison her mind with your thoughts of power. You push her to disobey me. It was a mistake to ever indulge her and allow you at court.”
“You are mistaken if you think your queen is so malleable as all that. She has ever been strong and resolute.”
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